


Tainted Draught

by Greer Watson (greerwatson)



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/Greer%20Watson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LaCroix ponders Janette's request to bring across the knight Nicolas de Brabant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tainted Draught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).



> This story has been written to the prompt, "Anything from slash to hating one another goes here, as long as it is passionate. Historical or canon-era or Last Knight fix-it or present day would all work. I'm not a huge fan of actual deathfic (well, a final death anyway), but if a story wants to go there, go for it."
> 
> Although "Tainted Draught" can stand on its own, it was actually inspired by an earlier ficlet that I wrote, [“Trilemma”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6049012); and, as such, may be considered to be its sequel.

The more LaCroix pondered Janette’s request, the more it troubled him—and that, in itself, was a source of concern. He had been a gentle father to his mortal daughter, and it had brought him eternal life and eternal sorrow. He had sworn that no child of his should be spoiled again: he would be a true _pater familias_ , stern as his Roman forebears. His children should learn from him as he would teach, accept his authority and obey without question, and be the better for it.

That, down the centuries, one by one, they each had left: well, that was their weakness, and their fault; and would, no doubt, in time be their downfall. Janette had stayed, grateful for salvation and eager for tutelage in the ways of the life to which he had brought her.

She was a good vampire.

Yet now she wanted this knight, this mortal, this Nicolas.

LaCroix had not yet given her his decision. Oh, he was tempted just to deny her: that would be simplest. But would it be right? He told her, firmly, that she must wait until he had decided. ( _He_ would wait until he was certain.)

Still, she did not take the hint…if hint it was…but continued to court her knight. LaCroix observed them secretly, without the mortal noticing his presence, even when he stood within the very room. (Mortals could be so blind, he thought with contempt.) His daughter was aware he was there, he was sure. She was not—could not—be _that_ besotted! Yet she did not complain.

That, he suspected, was not _his_ training. It was the legacy of her long-dead pimp. She had been used by any and many, and often not in private: she had been taught not to care. This—though the consequence should have pleased him, for it made her pliant to his wishes—did _not_ please at all. He wanted his Janette to be his own creation.

Yes, her knight was fair: he had seen that from the first. Nevertheless, as he watched the two of them together, he saw that she was drawn by more than simply the colour of his hair or the freshness of his skin, his well-muscled frame, his blue, blue eyes, or even the tenderness of his lips, which promised passion. There was an attractive melancholy about this Nicolas.

What was his past? Was he from Brabant in truth? Whatever had befallen him, he was severed already from his fellows. Oh, he shared their board, drinking and feasting in the hall. But some true compass had gone awry. He had been led from his old straight path, and had not found a new one.

The knight’s eyes followed Janette: he was tempted by her dark beauty—and not merely her lissome form and _that_ promise. He was tempted by her tainted soul.

“If you want him, take him,” he said finally to Janette. “Enjoy him in any way you please. If you keep from killing him, then I will consider granting your wish.” That, he thought, would test _her_ resolve, and the depth of her desire to have the knight as her companion. If she drank the man to death, then their lives would be the simpler for it—and she would have no one but herself to blame.

He observed her draw the knight from the room where the company sat feasting. He saw her offer herself—give herself—service him, as Daviau had taught her. It hurt his cold heart to see her astride the Brabantine. Every groan and pant he heard with the keenness of vampire ears, their smell reeked in his undead nostrils even above the mortal stenches of the city.

She did not bite.

He used her for his pleasure; and she enjoyed the passion—that was clear, beyond her arts—and yet she did not climax with his blood and his life. _She did not bite._

LaCroix looked at his daughter with her man. Did his own words trap him? “If you keep from killing him, then I will consider granting your wish.” The promise could be inferred, if not strictly implied. Would he be foresworn in her eyes?

Perhaps he should he explain that she would tire of her young knight eventually? Of this LaCroix was certain. Eternity was a long time: he did not think that he himself could remain true that long, save to family. Ten years from now, a hundred, a thousand (for LaCroix himself had lived more than a thousand), the Brabantine would still be vampire. There was, after all, no going back: the choice was forever. Surely, it was foolish to bring him across for the mere pleasure of a week or a day or an hour.

He would still be vampire, yes. Still be with them? Perhaps. LaCroix had not considered this. (Nor, he suspected, had Janette.) Once brought across, Sieur Nicolas would be family; and that, too, could not change. Passing fancies might pass, but blood ties would remain. Janette was the only one of his children not to have left him—and he suspected that, one day, she too would leave (and no doubt Nicolas have gone long since)—but each and every one of them he could feel from afar. They were bound by their blood.

So, family, yes. But this would not, he thought, be his...‘son-in-law’…for all that very long. (The conceit amused him. He would play with it a while.)

The way these Christian lords were raised, to honour the chaste, command their wives, and use their whores: Janette was not chaste, and so he would not make her wife; what then was she to him? She was his whore. For whores, these Christian lords had no respect. Roman that LaCroix was, such mortal contempt affronted him.

What she felt for the Brabantine was passion: it was lust. It had no future. It was no basis for family.

“If you keep from killing him, then I will consider granting your wish.”

His word was given; and a Roman’s word was his bond. But he _had_ considered. She had not killed; and so he had considered; and now he had decided.

This was his decision: he would _not_ bring the knight across. It was for the best—yes, it was indeed!—best for Janette, best for himself, and…yes…best for the knight. Mortal he would remain for the rest of his days on this earth (short though they would be). Mortal, he would scour his soul to purity, confess his lust, take his penance, and set his compass aright for a new future.

He heard Janette whisper to her champion, words to fuel his pride in his prowess. She lifted herself off him; the skirts of her gown fell; and she left the bed, straightening her clothes skilfully as she gave the knight a backward glance that promised…so, so much more to come.

Now he must tell her.

She slipped behind the draped cloth and joined LaCroix with a questioning look. The knight lay spent on the bed. He had stripped to his shirt. It was concealingly long; but Janette had pulled it up to give him his pleasure, and, exhausted and smiling, he had not yet pulled it down.

LaCroix eyed him up and eyed him down. _Very_ pretty. If this were Rome, and he were in the market for a body slave, he might well consider the purchase. For the most part, he was a man for women (as Seline once could have attested). Still, he could fancy this boy himself if he had not promised him to his daughter.

Well, for as long as she wished to keep him.

Yes, he could fancy the knight himself—after she was done.

He licked his lips, and swallowed…as if he could taste and drink a draught that was not there.

Janette’s eyes narrowed. She gripped his arm, tight as only a vampire could grip, and pulled him out of the room to the corridor. He turned, outraged, to see her eyes gleam red.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, low and hard. “What have you decided? What will you do?” Then, possessively, “He is not _yours_ to kill!”

He looked down, and she could see lust hidden in his face.

“No!”

“He is pretty,” he whispered. “You are right.”

“He is _mine_!”

“Yes,” he agreed. “You saw him, and he is yours—for as long as you want him. And then he shall be mine. He is young and lusty, and I will teach him to respect me, and love me, and obey. For I have many pleasures to teach him.”

She looked furious, and he smiled gently. “But for now, he is yours, my Janette—as you are mine. You have asked me for him, and I shall give him to you. I shall bring him across for you, so you can possess him as only _our_ kind knows. And he will be yours for as long as you care.”

She was not satisfied, he could see. But she nodded.

She stepped back into the room, and he stepped into view behind her. The knight turned, started at the sight of the stranger, and made to rise. But she bade him stay, and told him who LaCroix was—what he was to her, and what he might be to him.

With lust deepening his throat, LaCroix smiled at his knight and said, “We will be friends…for a long, long time.”

*****

Later that night, when his teeth pierced the throat of the knight, and he drained him deeply dry, he finally tasted the draught—and it was, indeed, sweet on the lips. His dark soul thrilled to the knight’s captivity, disillusion, and despair; and he knew that Nicolas de Brabant did indeed have the qualities of a true vampire. But his heart knew the core of the man’s true nature: immovable object met irresisible force, never to be conquered.

If, later, for his solace, he sought his soulmate in his knight’s young sister—well, that is another story.


End file.
